The mug of beer faced me. It was a challenge, a threat. The bar patrons’ watchful eyes were oppressive. I knew I should never have come back here. The town is too small, the people too small-minded. The demons too real. Moving away after that fateful night, the night of the accident, had seemed the best move I could have made. We were all too young to comprehend the consequences of our revelry.

It’s really funny how things change. Once, a six-pack of beer would have signified a night of spontaneity or relaxation, of bullshitting about whatever there was to ponder. Nights like those seemed the gateway to our freedom; freedom from the strip malls, the commercialism, the patchwork facades of our parents. We all knew they weren’t really happy, but that realization came in a way which can only be described as the quintessential “loss of innocence” moment, that our teachers preached to us for years.

Now, here I am. Back here. I never thought it would happen. Until my mom’s death, there was no reason for me to come back. No happy memories remained, everything was tainted with the ugly sorrow of loss. Earlier today I visited my old school, just for the hell of it, but nothing looked the same. The grayness obliterated the charm. The playground looked dilapidated, weeds sprung out from the spidery cracks in the cement, the paint was chipping. Here was where our childhoods started, our friendships. I guess time really does have a way of eroding everything; it has successfully eroded my memories and emotions. It’s strange how my emotions seem … disparate, disused. I am disintegrating like my playground. Like my friends, buried too far into the ground.

Never again will I look upon them, never will their dreams come true. The burden of surviving is on me, but at times I find I’m jealous. Why should I be the one to have to go on, infused with these parasitic memories that have devoured the remainder of my other, happier memories? Grayness permeates this town. The sky, the roads, the sidewalks, the dirt, the old snow, the people and the buildings are all dressed in shades of gray.

Outside of this place there is life. Here there is only the imitation of life. People practicing social rituals they deem to be part of the norm — if only they could see just how off base they are. They are numb, yet they pretend that they are completely satisfied. Or perhaps they do believe they are satisfied. That was our problem, we were too visionary, and we realized that there was more to life than this town. But, like the town, we succumbed to the centripetal pattern of drinking. We got caught up in it.

And now the mug glares at me, a challenge. I must resist the confrontation. I can feel the dozens of eyes piercing my back as they stare at me, the prodigal, waiting to see my decision. I hate knowing what others are thinking. I know that they think I am the one at fault because I lived, I know that they feel sorry that I returned for my mother’s funeral, and am now completely without connections in this world, and I know that in their perverse mind they want to see me pick up that drink. They want to see me fail, to succumb, to become like them.

With my last shred of pride, instilled within me only by memories of my friends, whose lives were wasted with this poison, I turned on my heel and fled from the bar. Sip, don’t guzzle, perhaps those sagacious words should be heeded. I’m still learning to live in moderation. I practice everyday, but I think the best way to improve is to remove the unhealthy source. After her funeral I left that town forever.